


Just Be Here

by alstroemerian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety (mentioned), Burns, M/M, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 07:30:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13806429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alstroemerian/pseuds/alstroemerian
Summary: Sherlock has started smoking again.





	Just Be Here

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: depression and self harm.  
> Be safe, don't read if will trigger you at all.
> 
> Not beta'd, probably shit.

Sherlock is smoking a cigarette.

He’s in the flat by himself, he's got all the windows open, and he knows for a fact that Mrs. Hudson is going to be at the shop for at least another hour.

John’s working a double-shift at the hospital so the smell should clear out by then, giving Sherlock all the time in the world to dive head-first back in to those habits he gave up when John pleaded with him to quit; He’d already had to suffer through Sherlock’s death once and he’d rather not do it again before he was meant to.

Sherlock _knows_. He knows exactly how many years he’s shaving off his life, the threat of lung cancer looming over his head, but he can’t find it in himself to _care_.

So Sherlock is smoking a cigarette.

It's been like this for the past couple of weeks. John leaves, and Sherlock does the things he's not supposed to, gets high on anything he can get his hands on: cigarettes, coke, even the the burn of his lighter across his skin.

Sometimes he wishes he weren't so pale, maybe his marks wouldn't stand out as much, but if John has noticed he hasn’t said anything.

John is definitely going to notice it now.

The marks are almost black because he does it in the same spots every time and it doesn't hurt much anymore, just stings a bit and it's gone.

It's not enough for Sherlock to ground himself, it makes him feel antsy and like he needs to stop it before he completely spirals out of control. Last time that happened he went on a three day bender and woke up in an alleyway, staring up at an exhausted John who stared right back, eyes a mix of anger, sadness, and disappointment, and he didn't want to face that again.

“Godammit,” he mutters to himself, and does the only thing that he can think of. He shoves the mottled end of the cigarette against his thigh, effectively putting it out. It hurts but it's distracting him from feeling bad, so it feels good, better than feeling nothing and he wonders why he hasn’t done it there before. His wrists are starting to become almost immune to the pain but this, this was sharp and burned like his arms had the first time and its bad but, he can't help it.

Before, Sherlock had wished, begged for the emptiness that ate away at him. He had wanted to feel nothing. Things were so different now, though, and he’d realized a little too late how much he didn't hate feeling, even if he didn't register it half the time.

Sherlock didn't really know what happiness was, wouldn't even begin to know how to describe such a complex feeling, but he knew it was a complete opposite to this. The closest he felt to it was probably how he felt around John, or maybe after a case. The rush of adrenaline in his body, the feeling that he was alive. It was gone and Sherlock desperately wanted it back.

Suddenly tears are stinging his eyes which shocks him but also doesn't, he hasn’t cried since he was a child, but now seems as good a time as any.

He tries to sob quietly, if Mrs. Hudson’s returned he doesn't want her to hear him, because then she’ll get worried and tell John (“John’s a doctor, he'll know what to do"), and John’ll get worried and ask Sherlock what’s wrong, and Sherlock will tell him because he can’t ever say no to John, and John will get angry because Sherlock lied to him and John will _leave_.

Speaking of which.

“Sherlock?” The door slams shut and Sherlock winces, but doesn't say anything in reply.

“Shit.”

That's all John says, and Sherlock knows he’s smelled the smoke, he’s probably already thinking the worst (this arguably _is_ the worst), and _fuck_ there's no getting out of this now.

His name rings through the flat again, and for a split second he thinks about making a dash for the stairs before John walks into the living room.

John just stares. Stands there and fixes him with this look and Sherlock knows how pitiful he must appear: tear stains and burn marks standing out against his pale skin and t-shirt. He hadn’t even bothered to put on pants so John knows, he can see them. All of them.

He swallows the lump in his throat, ready to tell John he's fine and he's sorry for all of this, but all that comes out is a pained gasp and suddenly he's crying again.

“Sherlock. Hey, I’ve got you. I'm right here.” John is hushing him, running a hand into his curls and pulling him into his chest.

John is there, John is always there, caring for him because he can’t take care of himself. So Sherlock cries, and he cries harder into John’s shoulder because John's got a hold on his wrist and he knows how bad it looks.

“Let’s go get you cleaned up, yeah?”

Sherlock doesn't answer, just sniffles and lets himself be pulled to the bathroom, watching as John switches to full doctor mode, bustling around and cleaning him up, anything to distract him from the tears Sherlock can see gathering in his eyes.

Sherlock can't ignore the roar of guilt in his chest.

When John is finished, he pulls Sherlock against him, wrapping him in a hug and leaning up to kiss his forehead.

“We’re gonna fix this.” John says into his hair.

And Sherlock believes him.


End file.
